A Thin Line
by caffeineaddict13
Summary: J/B. And you promised yourself that it would never happen to you.


**A/N:** What Stephenie Meyer _didn't _tell you about Bella's deepest thoughts. Goes through Twilight, New Moon, and Eclipse, but is on my own timeline after that. R & R.

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Your life didn't exactly turn out the way you expected it to.

When you lived in sunny Arizona, you _liked_ it there. It was quiet and hot, and even though you didn't know many kids your age that you were very friendly with, you had your mom and your books to keep you company. You had always loved your mother, the crazy wild side of you that never came out—your sister and your friend. You knew your relationship with her wasn't exactly _average_, but you didn't _like_ being average, anyway.

And then she fell in love.

And you saw it in her eyes the day she brought Phil home to meet you. You saw it in the way she looked at him and the hurt that flashed across her face when he left. You knew that you were just a third wheel, now, and it didn't _matter_ how happy you were, because you loved her, and she loved _him_.

And you promised yourself that it would _never happen to you_.

You moved to Forks because you _had_ to. And even though your body _ached_ for the sun and the sand, you knew that you couldn't go back. So you marked down the days on your calendar until you could be by yourself for once.

You didn't _expect_ to fall in love. But it hit you like a bright neon sign, flashing in your face and sending electric pulses down your spine. You knew it the second you saw his face, and even though you _hated_ yourself for falling, for _losing_, there was nothing you could do. You would never admit it, not even to yourself, but you hated Edward almost as much as you loved him.

It was dangerous, this love. It clouded your mind during the day and took over your dreams at night, pushing everything else out of your head. It surprised you that it could happen so _quickly_, just like it did in your books, that suddenly your life revolved around this one flawless person and you couldn't even _think_ of anything but him. It controlled all your senses: your eyes now pointed out the imperfections in other people, how _unlike_ they were to him; your ears twisted words into his melody, your hands into his frozen touch, your tongue into the taste of his skin. You even became addicted to the _scent _of him—it _disgusted_ you how hysterically _obsessed_ you were.

When he said he loved you back, you knew it was all over. Your world already revolved around him, and now it meant that you could mold your life perfectly to his. If it meant you would have to give up your soul, than so be it. There was simply _nothing you could do_. You _hated_ it.

You followed him and his rules, fitting yourself into his perfect family, imagining yourself with his shining golden eyes. You pressed against his lips like you could _feed_ off of him, like he was the _blood_ in your very veins—and you laughed at the irony when he told you you were his heroin.

The plans were made and you didn't need to be Alice to know how your future was going to turn out. You could see it as clear as looking in the mirror, when you saw that your skin was growing paler, your lips redder, your nose straighter. You were turning into them and _you weren't even dead yet_.

So it surprised you, to say the least, when he told you he was leaving. You thought about your mother and Phil and their marriage, and then your mind flashed to Charlie, to his broken heart and empty house. Were you the victim? Had you been so blinded by love that you hadn't noticed the fatal flaw in your plan?

He left and you didn't _exist_. How could you when you were nothing but a pair of arms to hold him with? You didn't _have_ a purpose besides loving him, and you couldn't even _remember_ what it felt like to be real. For the first time in your privileged life, you were really and truly _alone_.

When you visited Jacob Black, you didn't expect him to be the answer to your problems. You didn't _expect_ to be alive when you were near him. His laugh filled your heart with something so much stronger than blood, than kinship, but it happened so slowly that you didn't even realize the truth.

You were falling in love again. And you _liked_ it.

With Jacob, you were no longer in pain. His hot hands didn't burn you, didn't scald your white skin with blisters. He put them around your waist and it was _real_—he hugged you tight and your heart was beating again.

This time, it wasn't like the stories. It didn't hit you hard and urgent, it crawled in unwearyingly and waited for you to realize. It caught the little smiles and stares and pushed them to the back of your head, packed them in a box and marked it with his name, wasting away until you were _ready_ to open it.

And Jacob, he was so _patient_. He put you back together, piece by piece, smoothing away your broken soul, then turned around and smiled as he admired his work. He told you he loved you and you called him your _best friend_. He made you laugh and you screamed in your sleep.

You were stupid. And afraid.

When Edward returned, you jumped willingly back into oblivion. You risked your life to save him, wanting to be _out_ of control again, wanting to sink into this _fixation_—you didn't want to _feel_, you wanted to _be_.

But Jacob had taken some part of you with him, and you couldn't even do _that_ anymore. This new love was something ugly and charred, and you were stubborn and told yourself you were still head over heels. But you crawled back to Jacob every night, shuddering in your sleep when you thought of him. And the box was getting too heavy to ignore.

Edward called you normal and you _played_ on his guilt, some ranking evil part of you _liked_ that you had a _choice_. You were in control and it felt _good_, too good, so you pushed your heart at Edward and ripped out Jacob's to claim as your own.

Soon, you were feeding off this _want_, and you kissed Edward like you did to Jacob in your dreams. He was colder and sweeter, sickly sweet, and for the first time you recognized the nauseating fragrance that the werewolves complained about. He was gentle and cautious and you flinched inwardly, pushing away the thoughts of warm, brown arms wrapping around your waist, wet kisses down your neck, hot fingers dancing over your stomach. You swallowed the venom and the _hate_ along with it, promising to him your life.

The wedding bells were ringing, so you took his ring and he took your innocence. He bit you and you screamed, but somewhere inside, you _liked_ the pain. You _liked_ that it burned the same way your heart did, and when your pulse gave way to silence, you pretended the tears that were falling were _happy_.

When you hunt, Edward remarks on how _angry_ you get. You tear away the flesh like you _want_ to do to him, to this _love_, to this god-awful _string_ that connects you to his existence. You drink the blood like it's going to save you, and sometimes you're scared at how _familiar_ the warmth is.

You continue the charade every day of forever, _suffocating_ from your own scent, _dying_ from your own choices. You tell him you love him and grimace, and you're still stupid enough to think that he doesn't notice. But it's too late. It's over.

Somewhere, in another world, you are alive and blushing. You open up that long-forgotten box and call him _yours_, _your Jacob_, and he kisses you like you always imagined he would. You fade away with his hand still encasing yours, and you can see your children and your grandchildren waving you goodbye. Somewhere, you are happy. Somewhere, you _believe _in love.

And you aren't afraid to love him.

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**END**


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